( via/ via )

Meet Invisible Sex. (thread)

"We live in an old chaos of the sun." —Stevens

14 vowel sound poem.

(first fytte)

purple sun in a green sky
sweep of ogre seasons
this hazy morn mild & feldspar
motions of a dire poison

smoking hot heart-smithy
yet small effect shekelwise
invasion cards cryptic
crystal in retrospect

lavender clouds laden
with long withered songlines
yesterdays guest-gathered
one gust wrung from dung heap

travel means concern-tryst
almost trackless smackdown
follow the true fuel cell
affordances half-baffled

only from this lean land
headlights on at dread noon
monuments to weird winds
monsoon saga logjam

pickle chips my pocket
perishing shore story
Stetson from a stiff shelf
Asterion umgang

uphill walking homeward
herald of smoke broken
answer in the onset
ever same & devilled

pastel still but darkening
groundstalworth solitude
you leave little book piles
a breeze flutters bloodshot

world we will snarl on
wares we believe in
bluefaced strangers strung out
on stern wrong alphabets

purple sun in a green sky

(Continued here.)

The Little Garden of Walahfrid Strabo. Online. In Huysmans. Another version, 1966 (with complete facsimile).

( via / me )

The Silencers (1966). #21

"sculsh flapdragon"

ringing ears this roomful
rimy sloom-fed voltage
antlered kibosh ashless
or eldritch Morse cipher meld
whereupon dark whammy
whim of lampad sputter
the words growing warmer
wilderness-joined summerthrum

The Wrecking Crew (1968). #23

"There are no unsacred places;
There are only sacred places and desecrated places."

—Wendell Berry via @emmaeli.bsky.social

This is me if you even care.

( via / via )

Tanka.

"White smoke from the Vatican CAN mean that there’s a new Pope but don’t overlook the possibility that it needs a new head gasket" --@portmanteauface.bsky.social

Why Publish?

"geometric clown"

burnt umber
the ink cantor
a room void
verify shapes
paper trail
labyrinth breadcrumbs
not yet bled
of black newsreels
i forge fiends
& urgent fibs
this dead day
labyrinth breadcrumbs
crows follow
increase blizzard
lost is when
whinny lusters
script unscrews
labyrinth breadcrumbs
take burnt umber

I Walk on Guilded Splinters.

( via / via )

Dystopia is the AARP advising older Americans about how to live in a police state.

"bells chiming
in the vacant house…
from a pond"

--@poemexe.com

Dimethyl sulfide.

mathom, rainy morning
removed from blithe eyethirl

huddled on grilled wharfside
harsh silence the milestone

we are among wingspans
wide-circling this lurkfield

sweet-talked by swab-robots
swimming in mute persimmon

"Someone asked me once if the men who hung the lanterns in the tower knew what they were doing."

( via / me )

Tanka.

green neon inane
nautilus bore forward
three ghosts who cannot heal me
mists that never move
anointing thin windscreen
blurred shapes on the shore
sharing restless guesswork
silver threads of suds
three ghosts who cannot heal me

Time to wake up!

"the week between Christmas and New Year's Day is like being at the airport" --@blainecapatch.bsky.social

"that no man’s land between Christmas and New Year, which I like to call ‘The Yuletide Perineum!’ ☺️" --@kevmoore.bsky.social

Rules for the Direction of the Artificial Mind.